What's the telltale sign that I'm not alone?
by NaTak
Summary: There is this trick that Matt uses. If he concentrates hard enough, he can always find a telltale sign that the person speaking to him isn't really there. Well, besides the obvious fact that most of the voices talking in his head belong to people who are already dead. The system he has in place works. Right up until it doesn't.


**A/N:** Originally published on AO3 as part of the 2018 Daredevil Secret Santa Bonus Gift Collection.

Beta'ed by wonderful Amlia.

Please enjoy!

* * *

 **What's the telltale sign that I'm not alone?**

* * *

There is this trick that Matt uses.

He's read somewhere before that some schizophrenic patients develop particular ways to cope with their positive symptoms that do not necessarily involve medication. For example, to check if a voice they hear or something they see is really there or if it's just a product of their illness they pay attention to other people's reaction to it. If someone else turns their head or startles, then they know they are not hallucinating. If not, well. Life goes on one way of the other.

Matt's never taken much advantage of this method. Partly because he was usually alone when the voices began to visit him. But mostly because he's come to realize that if he concentrates hard enough he can always find a telltale sign that the person speaking to him isn't really there.

Well, besides the obvious fact that most of the voices talking in his head belong to people who are already dead.

For example, when it's his father, the deep, gruff timbre of his voice will be exactly the same as Matt remembers it. Even the expressions he uses, the cursing, the slangs, are things he can clearly remember or imagine his father saying. It's the same with smell. That unique mixture of sweat and blood and Fogwell's training ring that used to lull Matt into sleep when he was having a bad night fills his lungs whenever his father opens his mouth to speak. With his father, Matt can trust neither sound nor smell.

It's taste that gives the hallucination away. When Matt licks his lips when listening to his father's voice and smelling his father's smell, he's never able to taste anything other than the cheap whisky his old man used to give him before pressing a cirurgical needle and line into his no longer shaking hands.

When Matt's grabbing lunch with Karen and Foggy, and his father starts talking to him from the otherwise empty table besides them, it's the fact that the sweet tomato sauce of his pasta burns like liquor when he swallows that enables Matt to ignore the late man's words and focus on the joke Foggy's telling.

With Father Lantom it's different. When he speaks to Matt, his voice is calm and reassuring, but also no-nonsense when the situation calls for it — which doesn't really help Matt, because that's exactly how the late priest used to sound. Taste is not useful in identifying the hallucination, as it is for Matt's old man. When Father Lantom speaks, Matt can taste the remnants of the last latte the priest had indulged in, before taking Confession or delivering the Homily.

For the priest, it's smell that does it. When Father Lantom and he talk, Matt can't smell anything but the inside of a confessional — the aged wood, the residues of the tears and the sweat and the anger and the guilt of the hundreds of penitents who sat there before.

So when Matt's in court, delivering an opening statement or questioning a witness, it's the fact that he can no longer smell the judge's perfume or the bar officer's hair gel that betrays Father Lantom's mirage. When wood and incense and regret clog Matt's nostrils until he feels he's suffocating, he knows the jury won't be able to hear the misgivings the priest is shooting his way as Matt calls an objection.

Elektra– Matt took a while to figure Elektra out. He tried to catch her on smell and taste first. But whenever she whispers Matt's name in his ear, he can smell her skin and taste the blood she's shed as plainly as if she was really there. He can smell the exotic soap she favors and taste the danger that she always brings into his life.

Matt thought sound would do it, but soon he realizes it won't be so easy — it's Elektra after all, when she's ever made things easy for anyone, least of all him? Her accent is precisely as he remembers; the way she's able to mold soft, lovely words into deadly weapons, and violent, brutal ones into sincere love confessions is so _Elektra_ that Matt wonders at his unconsciousness ability to come up with them.

With Elektra, it's touch that unveils her. Whenever she tries to convince Matt to hit just a little harder, to leap just a little further, to take just another risk, Matt can feel her nails running up and down his arms, almost breaking the skin, but not quite. He can feel her heat pressing in close, crowding him in that way that was always just a little too intense to be exactly comfortable.

When Matt's out as Daredevil, and instead of the hard, confining material of his armor he can only feel the softness of Elektra's skin, or when instead of the pain from a punch or a stab all he feels is the burning pleasure of a dead woman's touch he knows the gleeful, unhindered giggling is only in his head.

But it's Stick who gives Matt the most trouble. For a while there, he thought he had his old mentor worked out. In the beginning, Stick wouldn't speak. Matt would only know he was there because of the sound of his heartbeat, or his breathing, or his uselessly tapping cane. He'd check with smell. The old skin, the nondescript hygiene products, the stench of death and despair that followed Stick wherever he went. Taste would be next. He'd feel the bitter taste of beer under his tongue, taste the remnants of a blade on his lips and know the old man was standing right behind him. When the first punch came, Matt sensed it coming, but didn't move out of the way, because he thought that's what'd give the hallucination away.

Like so many times before, Matt was wrong.

Stick's fist connected and he stumbled forwards in his way down the stairs. Only years worth of training prevented Matt from breaking his neck on the fall.

The thing with Stick, Matt learns, is that the asshole is always trying to keep his old apprentice on his toes, so it's always something different that Matt has to look out for.

Sometimes, it's the taste of vanilla ice cream. Like that one time Matt was at the Nelsons' for dinner, and the tiramisu suddenly started to taste far softer and colder than it was supposed to. That was how Matt knew not to react when Stick threw his trademark depreciative comments in Foggy's direction, as his friend clapped him on the back and said how glad he was Matt had managed to visit.

Other times, it's the quietly spoken _Matty_ as Matt waits in line to receive Communion that tells him that the tap-tap-tap following just behind him can't be heard by anyone else.

In one memorable occasion, it's the sensation of deceptively frail arms wrapping themselves around Matt's shoulders. He was talking to a potential client and he could barely concentrate past the feeling of a 20-years delayed hug — he had to ask Karen to take over the interview, as he fought not to visibly react to ghost-Stick's entertained snort.

All that said, Matt's _not_ schizophrenic. At least, he doesn't think he is.

He's perfectly aware the people he hears are dead. He'd been there to witness most of their deaths, after all. He's not delusional.

It's just that, sometimes, he listens a little too hard, and picks up on things that aren't really there.

The system he has in place works. Matt's learned to focus on the telltale signs. He uses them to ground himself when he's in the company of other people. He knows not to react, not to snap back, not to flinch, not to apologize, not to cover his ears and cower from the bitter accusations.

(It wouldn't work anyway. He's tried once, when he was alone, and Elektra's cutting recriminations wouldn't let him sleep. He tried drowning his ears in the bathroom sink, but all he got was freezing water burning in his lungs. The voices are in his head – there's no use muffling his senses. _They_ are not the problem. Not this time.)

Matt wonders if his hallucinations are the consequence of the physical trauma he went through at Midland Circle, or if they are more closely related to the psychological aspects of the whole ordeal that came afterwards.

(He decides it doesn't really matter one way or the other. And Matt can be honest enough with himself to admit he only made his piece with it after Stick's _oh look at me, poor Matt Murdock, I'd rather waste time blaming others for my shit than deal with the fact that I'm going crazy_ comment. Hallucinated-Stick is just as much of a jerk as real-Stick. And he makes just as valid points.)

Matt considered going to a doctor to get himself checked out, but he can't see – no pun intended – it working out for any of the involved.

He tries to meditate it away, when he's got the time. But Elektra doesn't appreciate him trying to get himself rid of her – in any capacity –, so she usually picks that moment to playfully/painfully tug on his hair to break his concentration.

So mostly he ignores what he can – writes what he can off as headaches – and keeps on rebuilding his life.

It's working, too. Until, well. It isn't.

* * *

Matt's back at Clinton Church, across from St. Agnes.

When the weather is good, the nuns like to bring the children to the church's backyard to play for a few hours, after they've finished with their homework. Matt and Sister Maggie have taken to meet in such occasions, when their schedules allow it.

He's arrived a little early that day, and still can't hear the kids laughing and running, so he makes his way inside the building to light a candle for Father Lantom.

Matt sits on the last bench, doing his best to tune out the whispered prayers he hears from the couple of parish members in the front. He turns his thoughts to his long lost mother and the tentative relation he's building with her.

It's...good to have her in his life. They can't make up for the lost years between them, and Matt doesn't want to. But it's nice to be able to freely speak to another person about what he does, what choices he's had to make. Someone who understands where he's coming from, regarding his faith. Because as much as Foggy and Karen try, there are things he feels only a fellow Catholic would be able to fully understand.

It doesn't make up for Father Lantom's role in his life. Of course it wouldn't. Maggie's approach to faith is different from the late priest – as is the way she calls Matt on his bullshit, when the need arises.

Matt can understand why his father and Maggie got on like a house of fire when they first met. The snark, the smart quips she sometimes shoots his way are things he can easily recognize Battlin' Jack Murdock being enthralled by. If he sometimes notices how he himself and Maggie have a very similar sense of humor, well, he doesn't mention it – though he wonders if she realizes it too. If she looks for signs of herself as well as signs of his father in the things he says, the way the moves, the sound of his laugh.

Matt smells the incense and the wood before he hears Father Lantom approaching. He's meeting Maggie in a few minutes, and he doesn't want to get caught up in a metaphysical discussion with the ghost of priest about Matt's latest moral crisis, so he chooses not to react to the steps coming in his direction, and he tunes out the voice calling his name.

 _Matthew_.

Father Lantom – differently from Elektra and Stick and even sometimes his father – never pushes Matt when he doesn't want to be pushed. He doesn't pry, doesn't press. He prefers to wait for Matt to come looking for him – he knows Matt will, eventually.

So Matt is understandably confused when he feels the priest's hand make contact with his shoulder.

He turns to ask what is so important that couldn't wait a more convenient time, when Matt picks up on the scent of flowers.

"Matthew, can you hear me?" Sister Maggie asks, shaking his shoulder a little forcefully now.

Quickly, Matt stands up. "Y-yeah," he stammers. How could he have not heard Maggie coming? She is standing inches away from him and he hadn't even realized–he thought it was– "Yeah, sorry. I was–distracted."

He can sense the muscles of her face tensing, but even if he couldn't, the frown is clear in her voice when she speaks.

"Distracted enough that you didn't hear me calling your name a dozen times?" Maggie asks in disbelief. Then, the skip of her heartbeat betrays her concern, even if her words are sharp and impatient. "Are you having problems with your senses again and didn't think to tell me?"

"No, no," Matt is quick to reassure her. "My senses are fine, I promise," he says truthfully. "It's just–" He tries to find something to say that won't get him institutionalized. "I haven't been sleeping well, the past few days," he admits. "I think I must have nodded off for a bit there."

Maggie's breathing calms, as does her heart, but concern lingers in her tone. "A difficult case at the practice?" She guesses. "...or at your night job?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but discovers that his lungs can't get enough oxygen, so thick is the incense blowing his way.

 _Lying is a sin, Matthew_.

"I was not going to lie," Matt protests, before he can stop himself.

Maggie is silent for a moment, though her heart thunders in Matt's ears.

"I didn't say you were," she eventually responds. "Are you sure you are alright?"

"Yes!"

 _It's the devil who thrives on deception, Matthew_ , Father Lantom chides.

Matt bites his lips so he won't snap back that _he's not lying_.

"I–I have to go," he sputters out instead, side stepping Sister Maggie and heading for the door. She doesn't try to stop him, and Matt knows it's because she doesn't feel like she has the right to ask him to stay – not after everything that she's done.

Guilt is another thing they have in common.

 _I asked you to forgive us_ , the priest presses, voice echoing in the high ceilings of the church. _Is this what forgiveness looks like to you?_

* * *

Matt writes the whole thing off as a glitch in his otherwise perfectly-working system.

He's not getting enough sleep, that's all – that with all the bureaucracy of setting up Nelson, Murdock and Page and the strain of going out at night when the city calls for help. He'll take a couple of nights off to catch up on his sleep and focus on being the partner his friends deserve.

That evening, he calls Maggie to apologize for taking off so abruptly, and agrees to meet with her after mass on Sunday.

The following morning, Matt arrives early at Nelson's Meats. He greets Theo warmly at the counter, heads to the backroom where they've set up their makeshift office and gets to work.

Karen and Foggy walk in about an hour later, and they cannot mask the small gasps of surprise at seeing he got there first. He can count the number of times that's ever happened – even at their old office – in one hand and still have fingers left. Still, no one mentions anything, but if the smile in their voices when they say good-morning in anything to go by, they're pleased.

It's almost noon and they've been discussing a strategy to build a clientele for a few hours, when Matt senses Foggy's breathing hitch in that way that indicates he's about to say something. Matt beats him to it.

"Don't worry about it," Matt tells him, already getting up. "You and Karen go get lunch and I'll swing by the precinct to talk to Brett."

Foggy gapes at him from where he's sitting over an empty crate. "What–How–Did the tendons of my bending toes give me away or what?" He finally asks, gesturing wildly, before turning his face towards Karen. "Tell me I'm not the only one who finds this creepy as hell," he begs her.

Karen is too immersed in whatever she's reading at her computer to do anything other than wave a hand dismissively in Foggy's direction.

Matt chuckles. "You always offer to talk to Brett when we're dry on clients," he points out. "I know you had a light breakfast because Marci's on a diet – those shakes you're both drinking smell terrible by the way. And I can hear your stomach grumbling with the lack of food. Therefore, I talk to Brett, you get food, and we reconvene here in an hour. Deal?"

Foggy flails. "I don't know what's more disturbing: to think you can read my mind or to know that you can stand being in the same room with me when you can still smell that god-awful, foul thing in my breath." He shudders. "I feel for you, buddy."

Matt laughs again, pulling on his jacket, waving his friends goodbye.

Twenty minutes, he's sitting on a plastic chair at the precinct, waiting for Brett to finish up with an interrogation.

It's busy in the building that morning. Apparently the cops had to be called to break up a fight in a nearby bar and there are a number of drunk men waiting to be booked. Matt spares a thought to wonder what kind of bar hosts that big of a fight in full daylight.

A man drops on the chair next to him, and Matt only gets a sniff of blood and sweat before his father's voice is sounding in his ears.

 _I used to get in fights just like these, back in the day,_ his old man comments, nonchalantly, from where he sits besides Matt.

Matt swallows drily, and the taste of whisky is a comfort to his senses. Just look for the telltale sign, that's it.

 _You know, Matty_ , the boxer continues, _I never wanted you to follow in my footsteps_.

Matt nods, once, resisting the urge to turn towards the voice.

 _I wanted you to be more like your mother_ , his father confesses. _Maggie was so bright, so good. I thought, if anyone could keep the devil at bay, it'd be her_.

Well, look at how well that turned out, Matt thinks to himself.

Then he hears Detective Brett Mahoney finishing up with his interview and heading towards the door.

Matt concentrates on the lingering taste of alcohol under his tongue and ignores everything else his misleading senses are telling him. He can't risk another episode like what happened at the church. He's got to be on top of his game when he speaks to Brett.

"Murdock," the detective greets, impatience hardening his voice. He is standing in front of Matt, who stands up at the sound of his name. "What trouble you and Nelson got yourselves into now?"

Before Matt has a chance to answer, he's hit with full force by the scent of sweat and blood and adrenaline. It's how his father used to smell when he was on the ring, just before he'd let the devil out. Matt fights to tune everything out, even Brett's voice. It's best that the detective thinks he's a little distracted, than for him to catch him answering someone who's not really there.

Then, something hard and unyielding collides brutally with his back and Matt stumbles forwards, disorientated.

His muted world suddenly blasts back into focus, and Matt gets a sharp impression of the scuffle between two of the drunks who were waiting to be booked and a couple of police officers. One of the men is brandishing a chair as a weapon, swinging it uncoordinatedly around himself. It must have hit Matt by accident.

The other man is the one who'd been sitting besides Matt – the one he thought was his father's hallucination. Now that Matt focuses on it, he can taste the remnants of cheap whisky in the man's breath, along with the blood from a split lip and the sweating from all the physical exertion.

As the officers manage to get a hold of the situation and separate the squabbling men, Brett Mahoney curses loudly besides Matt.

"Shit man, what the hell was that? Didn't you hear the shouts? Why didn't you move when I told you to get out of the way?"

 _It's too late now, Matty. You can't go back_. His father sounds so disappointed.

 _The devil's already out._

* * *

The situation...is not ideal, Matt concedes to himself.

He doesn't think it's getting out of control, though. Yes, the fact that he couldn't differentiate a stranger's smell from his late father's is somewhat concerning. And okay, even Matt can admit that completely missing a chair being thrown his way is not exactly reassuring – especially considering the circumstances he usually finds himself in, after sunset. But that's easily remedied. He'll just have to hold off on being Daredevil until he figures everything out.

Matt thinks Foggy and Karen would be quite proud of him for this responsible decision – if, you know, he wasn't omniting the mental health issues that led to it.

It's Friday evening, and the trio is back at Josie's. Even though Foggy can afford better alcohol, after all those months at HC&B, he still claims to prefer the cheap stuff. Matt suspects it has more to do with warm nostalgia regarding everything that the bar represents than alcohol preference, but he doesn't say anything. He's pretty sure Foggy knows Matt himself feels the same way about it.

They are playing pool. They're trying to be sneaky about it too, with Karen and Foggy pretending to guide Matt to the cue ball. Though after the number of drinks they've had, Matt isn't sure they'd fool anyone, if they happened to look closely.

Karen and Foggy teamed up against him, after Matt's won three consecutive rounds in which his friends barely got the chance to play. Josie keeps the drinks coming, even if she's grumbles about it to anyone who'll listen.

"This is not fair!" Foggy complains dramatically, after he and Karen have lost – again. "You're using your freaky bat senses to command the ball to do your bidding!"

Karen giggles, while Matt huffs in mock-indignation. "You don't see me complaining about how you're staring the cue sticks into obeying you," he retorts smirking, and takes another sip of his beer. "Each to their talents, buddy."

"I bet it's not even fun to you anymore," Foggy continues, as if Matt hasn't spoken. "You know you're going to win before we hit the first ball."

"Not really," Matt contradicts. "Beating you never gets old."

Foggy groans in defeat, but Karen seems to perk up.

"I got an idea," she says – and the mischievousness in her voice in unmistakable. "Maybe we can play it in a way that creates a challenge for everyone."

And Karen proceeds to explain to them how to play Blind Pool – which they later rename to Blind Leading Blind Pool, because, as Foggy put it: 'I don't like being associated with the shadiness of such investments!'

The idea is simple, and Matt finds himself warming up to it quickly.

Karen and Foggy will close their eyes while playing, and Matt will have to direct them as to where to place the stick and how hard to hit the ball. The both of them will get points for how many balls they manage to pocket. At the end of the game, if both Karen and Foggy end up with the same number of points, then Matt wins. If they get different numbers, the one with more points wins.

At first, Matt makes a token complaint that he won't be able to even touch the cue stick, but he soon forgets about it. As it turns out, trying – and failing – to coach his friends into blindingly pocketing balls is just as fun as playing the game unhindered had been.

"Are you even trying, man?" Foggy demands, between giggles, as he blindingly swings his stick over the table.

"Stop that!" Karen replies, though she can't keep the smile from her voice. "You're going to mess up with the ball placement."

"Aren't you more worried he'll take someone's eye out?" Matt demands chuckling, as he narrowly avoids getting hit on the chest by the wooden stick.

"Nah," Foggy interjects. "She knows you wouldn't let me."

Matt has to concede a point at that.

It's the last round of the initially agreed eight. Karen already got three points, while Foggy's still at two. If Matt manages to make Foggy pocket a ball, then he wins.

"Alright, alright," he commands, tapping his friend on the shoulder. "Focus here. Cue ball is ten inches in front of you," he guides. "There is a ball close to the rail, about… a feet to your left. It's really close to the corner pocket. A soft, direct hit should do it."

And Foggy proceeds to hit right, with all the force he can muster.

Behind Matt, Karen cheers.

Foggy turns towards Matt. "Sorry man," he says, wide grin belying his true sentiments, "but I'd rather lose to Karen than have you win another time."

Karen wriggles in between them, depositing a wet kiss on Foggy's cheek.

"I demand a retrial," Matt says, mock-inflamed.

"What about I get you another beer, instead?" His best friend replies. "Just let me hit up the restroom first," Foggy adds, as he walks away towards the back leaving Matt and Karen to tidy up the pool.

Still giggling, Karen playfully bumps shoulder with Matt. "That was fun," she comments. "I really have the best ideas."

Matt opens his mouth to agree when the smell of orchids makes him turn his face.

Damn, not now, he thinks, trying to keep the intoxicating taste of danger from clouding his thoughts. Matt doesn't try to shut his senses down completely though, not after what happened at the precinct.

 _I always liked to have fun, Matthew_ , Elektra's spicy words sound in his head, and he can taste the blood and her blades on the lips he had once kissed her with.

"You definitely do," he manages to answer Karen, after losing a beat.

"Still," Karen goes on, oblivious to the way Matt's suddenly flushing, "sorry about ganging up on you."

 _For a while there_ , Elektra continues, _I thought you were just another goody-two-shoes who didn't know how to have fun_.

"It's–ah. It's okay, Karen, really," Matt returns, turning away from her in the pretence to take another sip of his empty beer bottle.

 _But you proved me wrong, Matthew. You proved you're just as dangerous and just as reckless as I am_.

"Are you okay, Matt?" Karen asks, sounding concerned. Before he can step back, she closes in and places a hand on his forehead. "You feel a little warm," she comments, distractedly crowding his against the wall.

Matt knows that the fact that he can no longer differentiate the heat coming from Karen's body in front of him, from the heat of Elektra's hands roaming his chest and his arms in that conquering manner that always felt more like domination than seduction is quite alarming.

 _You should answer her, Matthew_ , Elektra prompts, and the wicked smirk is clear in her voice. _I think your girlfriend is getting worried_.

Not my girlfriend, he wants to bite back, but stops himself in time. Instead he says:

"I could use a glass of water, actually," Matt admits, going for sheepish. It seems to do the trick because a moment later Karen is stepping away from him and heading to the bar.

 _Ah_ , Elektra bemoans in disappointment, and Matt can't tell if she's mocking him or not. _I kind of liked her here_ , she comments, breathing softly in Matt's ear.

"Get out," he snaps, unable to contain himself any longer. "I don't have time for this right now."

Matt hears her tsking.

 _You used to be more charming than that_ , Elektra says, ignoring his order. He senses her moving around him, like a predator examining a cornered prey. Then she moves away and hops on the pool table. _Such pretty stories you would tell me, remember, Matthew?_

He wants to say no, but he finds that his throat has closed up.

 _About how I could be good_ , she goes on, feet dangling playfully before her, _about how we could make our own paths_. Elektra pauses, and Matt is absolutely certain she's looking in his direction. She's not smiling anymore. Not even her artificial, strained smile. _About how we could be together._

I tried to save you, Matt thinks, willing her to hear the words. I did everything I could.

 _Tell me, Matthew_ , she presses, unrelentless, _do you still regret walking out alive and leaving me buried under the wreckage?_

"Yes," Matt confesses, quietly.

 _Do you still wish you'd stayed with me till the end?_

"Sometimes."

 _Do you still love me, Matthew? And don't lie_ , Elektra adds quickly, jumping down the table and coming to stand just a few inches from him. _I will know if you lie_. It's as much of a promise as it is a threat.

"I–I," Matt swallows drily. He has to get this right. It will all fall apart if he doesn't. "I'll always care about you," he says at last.

 _But?_ She prompts.

"But I have to let you go, if I am to move on with my life," he explains tentatively. Elektra's love has always been all-consuming, possessive. Matt doesn't know if she has it in her to allow him to let her go.

 _Like I got to let you go, Matthew?_ She asks, vicious now. _Like I got to walk away from a fight that wasn't even mine? From the trap that you put us in?_

"You know that's not–" He tries to argue, but a slap to his face silences him.

 _I am not finished_ , Elektra snarls. _You let them take me, Matthew_ , she accuses. And Matt can taste the tears running down her cheeks. It breaks his heart. _You let them turn me into what I always feared I would become. A monster_.

"You were never–" Another slap, sharper this time.

 _And then you got me killed. Again. Was the first time not enough for you?_

Matt doesn't have anything to say in response to that. Any excuse or apology would only serve to anger her further. She'd hit him again, and he's so tired of fighting her he doesn't have it in him to even try.

Another slap, and this time Matt feels the skin of his cheek breaking. He wonders what he did to upset Elektra now.

"Matt! Come out of it! Damnit, Matt!"

Gasping for breath, Matt wills his world on fire to relight itself.

Karen is shaking in front of him, calling his name over and over, louder each time. Soon, even with the cacophony around them the other patrons will hear.

"It's–it's alright, Karen," Matt says. And it's only when he tries to speak that he realizes Karen's not the one shaking – he is. "I'm fine now. You can let go."

He standing with his back to the wall, leaning most of his weight against it. Karen is holding on to his shoulders. Her hands are hot, burningly so. Curiously, Matt lifts a finger to his own cheek, feeling a similar warmth there.

"Did you–?" He begins to ask.

"Who were you talking to?" Karen demands, finally backing off. "Your eyes were open but you wouldn't respond. Your face is red. I think you got a fever."

"It was just–" Matt, runs a hand through his hair, trying to get his bearings. He's at the bar, by the pool. Foggy will be back in just a moment now. Josie's passing over a few bottles of beer to his hands. "The music is too loud, my senses–"

"Don't bullshit me," Karen snaps, and her voice is as sharp and as cutting as any of Elektra's blades. "This has got nothing to do with your senses. This is something else, Matt."

Matt swallows, chasing the bitter taste of the beer he has just finished. He can't reach it. All he feels is the salt of Elektra's skin on his lips.

"I–I," he stammers, but there is nothing he can say to Karen that will convince her to let this go.

The evening had started so well. They were having fun. Foggy and Karen were relaxed around him in a way they hadn't been for a long time. They were supposed to get drinks, play some pool, and go home, none the wiser about Matt's latest predicament – which he would deal it with.

Matt wasn't supposed to ruin everything – again.

"I have to go," he mumbles in her direction.

"What? No freaking way–"

But Matt has disentangled himself from her, rushing to the door. He catches Foggy shouting his name in concern, but doesn't slow down.

 _Awww, Matthew_ , Elektra's voice follows him into the cold street. _Don't you want to play with their hearts anymore? You used to have such fun playing with mine_.

* * *

Matt covers more ground more quickly than a blind man should be able to. But it's too dark and the only people lingering on the streets have more important things to worry about than Matt's cane tapping its way quite ineffectually in front of him.

As soon as he gets home, he flings the useless stick away violently. It crashes against a wall, scrapping some paint off, by the smell of it, but Matt doesn't care.

Who had he been kidding? He's listening to dead people speaking. Of course there is something seriously wrong with him.

In the beginning, it had only been his father. Well, his father and Fisk.

Thankfully, after their confrontation at the penthouse, Fisk's voice hadn't bothered him anymore. He'd thought his father would fade away eventually too, but his presence had only gotten stronger.

Then, Father Lantom, Elektra and Stick showed up to the party and Matt naïvely clinged to the notion that the issue would quietly resolve itself.

He should have known better. Fisk's voice had only disappeared after Matt beat the real him. He is supposed to do something to make the others disappear too. That has to be it. Matt can't bear the thought that he is going to live like this for the rest of his life. But he can't confront any of the others, so how is he supposed to make them go away?

The adrenaline is pumping in his veins, making his heart beat faster, making his skin grow hot. Matt decides to do something productive with the burning energy trapped inside him. He takes off his glasses and heads to the trunk where he keeps the new suit Melvin put together for him.

A snort stops him dead on his tracks.

 _Look at you_ , Stick's condescending voice sounds in Matt's head, _getting all worked up. You go out like this and you're dead meat, kid_.

"Who's going to stop me?" Matt asks, because he can't work up the energy to ignore the hallucination. It's easier just to give in and snap back. "You?" He scoffs. "You're just a dead man's voice in my head. You can't do shit."

Stick taps his way until he's standing in front of Matt. It's rotten skin, beer, death, destruction, loneliness – all sweetened by a drop of melting vanilla ice cream. When he opens his mouth to speak, Matt can smell everything he'd eaten in the last 24 hours before he died. The scent of the weird incense he used to knock Luke out still clings to his clothes. And Matt recoils from the horrible taste of putrefying flesh under the wrapped bandages on the stump where his hand was supposed to be.

 _I'm a dead man's voice that you can smell, taste and feel_ , Stick replies coldly. And as if to prove the point, he smacks Matt's heel sharply with his cane, causing Matt to flinch at the sudden burn.

Annoyed, Matt kicks the cane out of Stick's hand, following up the motion with an well-aimed punch to the gut. The old man grunts, but easily steps out of reach.

 _I'm in you head, Matty_ , he taunts. _You can't get rid of an hallucination by beating the crap out of it. It's not like the last time we danced here. No matter how good you're it won't be enough._ Stick laughs, in that disdainful, scathing way that used to mock Matt when they trained. _Right now, with the way you're getting sloppy, even 10-year-old you would have a better chance of beating me_.

"You sure about that?" Matt asks, before rushing in with a series of quick jabs.

Stick meets him blow for blow. Even lacking a hand he and Matt are well matched. The old man pushes him hard against the bedroom door, unhinging it from the doorframe with a loud snap.

 _Matty, Matty_ , Stick tsks as Matt backs him towards the kitchen, _you've always had heart. You've always been quick to learn a new move. Fighting has never been a problem for you_. Stick ducks the kick aimed at his head, and Matt's leg connects with the tableware sitting on the counter. Glass and porcelain shatter when they hit the ground. The metal cutlery clinks loudly as it bounces on the floor. _Your problem is dealing with your shit. You always let your emotions get in the way and fuck everything up_.

"Maybe if you had stayed–if you had finished training me–" Matt can't resist but point out, as he takes a moment to catch his breath.

Stick snorts again. _We've been through this before. I needed a soldier, you wanted a father. It wouldn't work out_ , he dismisses.

Matt knows it's all in his head. Stick hadn't told him before he died. Any answer this version of him gives will only be Matt's unconsciousness playing tricks on him.

He asks anyways.

"Then why–why did you keep the bracelet?"

It's on that moment that Foggy walks into Matt's apartment, turning on the meek lights. "Sorry for barging in," his friend calls, locking the door behind him with the spare key, "I called for you but you didn't come, so I–" Foggy freezes where he stands, and Matt knows that even in the semi-darkness his friend can see the scene that meets him.

Matt's standing in the middle of his living room, panting from exertion. Around him, his apartment resembles a warzone. Furniture overthrown, objects cluttering the floor, shreds of glass and china everywhere.

"What the fuck happened here?" Foggy demands, stepping over the mess to reach Matt. "Did you get into a fight? Are you hurt?"

It's only then that Matt realizes that for all his talk about being able to differentiate hallucination from reality, he still managed to find himself in a fistfight with the voice of a dead old man and destroy half of his apartment in the process.

"I'm f–" Matt begins to say, but Foggy harshly interrupts him.

"If you say you're fine I swear to god I'm walking out of here and not coming back," he promises. And as anxious as Foggy is, his heart beats like a constant in his chest, proving his truthfulness. "Say you can't tell me. Say you don't know how to deal with it." Foggy adds, as Matt opens his mouth to try one more time. "Just don't you dare lie to me again."

Matt's silent for a long time, trying to get his breathing under control. He focuses on the vestiges of cheap beer still clinging to Foggy's lips, on the smell of the cologne Marci had picked out for him his last birthday, on the sound of his shoes squeaking as he shifts on his feet.

The stench of death is gone, and all that's left of Stick is a faint vanilla aftertaste.

"What's happening, Matty?" Foggy prompts gently, reaching out to hold on to Matt's hand. "Karen told me she caught in some sort of fit. You were talking to yourself, couldn't hear or feel her," his friend rambles, sweat revealing his nervousness. "She's so angry that you walked out on her, you know? She wanted to come check on you too, but I thought it best to send her home to cool down." Foggy tries to chuckle, but it comes out wrong.

"Probably–probably for the best." Matt manages to stammer out. "Thanks for coming check on me Fog. You're–you're a good friend. Better than I deserve."

"I'm the best of the best friends," Foggy jokes, but the words catch on his throat. "Let's find you a place to sit – you look like you will topple over."

They can't find a seat that isn't covered on sharp shreds in the living room, so they reconvene in the bedroom.

"Alright," Foggy begins, once they are sitting on the bed, cross legged and without their shoes – because 'if you don't have your shoes on then you can't leap out of the window the second the conversation gets serious, buddy' 'yeah, and you can't storm out in a rage if something I say makes you uncomfortable' 'touché'. "Spill."

 _The Lord detests lying lips, Matthew_ , Father Lantom tells him softly, from his place by the doorframe, _but he delights in those who tell the truth_.

"There is something happening to me," Matt admits, licking the latte off his lips. "Ever since Midland Circle I've been–different."

"Okay," Foggy encourages, "different how?"

 _You have always been different_ , Elektra corrects, and the smell of her fresh grave makes Matt's eyes water. _It's just that other people were too blind to see it. But now you've opened their eyes and they see who you really are. You frighten them, Matthew_.

"Foggy's not afraid of me," Matt tells her. "He knows me, and he's still here."

Foggy's heart is beating so fast Matt's impressed his voice manages to come out so leveled when he speaks.

"I'm not afraid of you, Matty," he confirms, minutely jerking his head to the side, to the place Eketra's voice had come from, as if to check that they are really alone.

 _These are the people you hold on to and never let g_ o, his father says, and Matt hears the echo of the gunshot in his words. _These are the people who see us for what we really are and love us all the same_.

"But she left you in the end," Matt contradicts. "She left us. What's to say he won't leave too?"

Foggy doesn't bother to crane his neck to look behind him this time. "I'm not going anywhere, buddy," he assures Matt instead. "You can tell me. I promise I won't freak out on you – well, not more than usual."

Matt chuckles lightly – mostly to drown out the sound of Stick snorting.

 _The fatty is making you soft, kid_ , the old man scolds – the sensation of unforgiving blows getting mixed up with the feel of a hug Matt wished he hadn't enjoyed so much. _Soft will get you killed. Do you call this dealing with your shit?_

"It's better than running away scared because a little kid made you _feel_ something," Matt snaps back.

"...okay," Foggy says, and he's too warm, his heart is too fast, his breathing is too shallow – but he's not leaving. "I'm going to need more context to be able to answer that one."

Matt laughs, and the sound isn't half as broken as he thought it would be.

 _You really are the toughest son of bitch I've ever met_ , Stick spits out with grudging respect.

* * *

Mass on Sunday morning is a quiet affair. The priest's voice is cadenced, and the rhythm of the ceremony is soothing.

Afterwards, Matt meets Sister Maggie at the garden. They walk side by side among the flowers and the dirt. Dew still lingers on the leaves of the trees, and Matt allows the quieting scents to lull him.

"You told me once," he says suddenly, once they've reached a bench right behind the apse, "that, back then, they didn't know much about postpartum depression."

"That's right," Maggie confirms, clearly confused as to where the conversation is heading. "The medical and psychological sciences have evolved since then. Now, healthcare professionals know to pay attention to the troubles of the mind too – when I was young, that wasn't the case."

That, Matt thinks, is another thing they have in common.

"That's good," he replies, but doesn't find it in himself to continue.

A warm, soft hand gently finds his.

"Is everything alright, Matthew?" Maggie asks tentatively, as if she expects a sharp rebuke.

Matt takes a deep breath, and he wonders when the nuns started to grow heliotropes[1] in their gardens.

"No," he says in a small voice, "it's not."

* * *

[1] purple, blue, or white flowers that smell like vanilla to some people


End file.
